


You Remind Me That I Wanted You To Kiss Me

by th_esaurus



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7630330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So maybe March had never had <em>great</em> sex until he met Healy. That might be a fair assessment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Remind Me That I Wanted You To Kiss Me

**Author's Note:**

> There's no excusing any of this, whoops.

Look, there's no doubting that Real Life Tough Guy Jackson Healy barrelled into March's life with far more violence than March liked in his day to day dealings. But then, after all the arm breaking and the dead chicks and the wanton destruction of property, Healy slowed down quite suddenly, pretty much to a stop. And there he stayed, quite comfortable, effortlessly orbiting March's lonesome star.

It wasn't like March had never had good sex until he met Healy. That was absurd; he and his wife had nearly always managed a stellar seven out of ten. Very pleasant. Thing was, March had been fucking her since he was seventeen, when he still shot off at the promise of a quick handy; and Emma was English so he could never be sure if she was just coming to be polite. He'd dipped his toe in fresher waters, but the bored grunting of LA prostitutes plummeted his self-esteem into the red, and the one or two dicks he'd dabbled with had been either as an acid-tripping hippie teen or a loser husband not sure whether his wife deserved an excuse for an easy divorce.

So maybe March had never had _great_ sex until he met Healy. That might be a fair assessment.

Here's an example: he'd been once, several months back, to the chambers of a leather-clad dominatrix who demanded he call her Mistress Boudica. When March eventually told Healy this sad tale, Healy corrected his pronunciation. "It's more accurate, you know. Celtic," he shrugged.

"You're from the fucking Bronx," March hissed. "Let me tell the goddamn story."

So Boudica had strapped him by the wrist and ankles to a metal bedframe in a dingy back room with blacked out windows and stains on the naked mattress. She clearly had a routine and didn't really ask him what he wanted and completely ignored his strangled yelling when she pulled out a cat o' nine tails and started sliding it in an approximation of seduction over his bare thighs. "You've been a bad, bad man," she kept saying.

"Oh Jesus," Holland had replied.

"You're a bad man who needs to be punished."

"Jesus Christ, I am, I'm— _shit_ —I'm a bad man, aren't I—" Holland started, and then he'd begun to cry, feebly trying to wipe his sticky face on his bicep. She did get in a whip or two before he was wailing in earnest, but his hysterics were drowning out her schtick, and eventually she gave up, hung the whip on the wall and sat there with a tissue next to his face to blow his nose into.

"Did you get off?" Healy asked, as Holland went quiet, purse-lipped.

"No I didn't fucking get off," Holland snapped. " _And_ I tipped her an extra fifty for crying on her."

Healy hummed, amused, and rested his chin on the top of March's head. It would have been patronising, but as they were, lying in bed with their chests brushing and Healy's thick arms resting on top of March's in a lazy embrace, it felt more like a comforting solidarity. You were an idiot, Holland March, but it happens to the best of us.

The whole conversation was a roundabout way of March asking Healy to hold him down a bit while they fucked. He only ever had a hard time with the words he actually wanted to say. In the end, that night, March settled with pressing his face in the junction at Healy's chest and belly, breathing in his musk and jerking off under the duvet.

It's worth mentioning that March was lanky enough that Healy could bend him near in half while he fucked him. Really got a good angle on the thrust, pinning March down entirely, March's thighs crushed into his chest, his heels facing skyward like a sordid hallelujah.

But nobody had figured that out before now because nobody had ever taken the time to really fuck Holland March.

His muscles mutinied the next day, and he spent the afternoon making Holly fetch and carry beer and case notes and pop tarts for him while he sat in the armchair on top of a towel and an ice pack.

"Is this because you had sex?" Holly asked disdainfully. She was goddamn prescient.

"No," March snapped, higher pitched than he intended. "I went for a jog."

"You wouldn't know _a jog_ if it bit you in the ass."

"It's a run, sweetheart," March muttered at her as she left him to his misery, "not a dog."

Healy, for what it's worth, adored March's daughter - and frankly that was worth a fair amount in March's eyes. They both chaperoned her to an under-16 roller disco one night, a dangerous mix of girlish school friends, teenage boys, and untapped potential for GBH on the dancefloor. March and Healy took up an entire six-seater table in the dark corner, March smoking aggressively while Healy was apparently having a genuinely pleasant time, tapping his old sneakers in time with the disco beat. His foot slowed every time a stranger skated too close to Holly, and then picked up again once she confidently waved them off.

March was drinking lime and soda with an obnoxious neon straw, and which he had spiked generously with gin from a hip flask. He'd picked the canteen up for a song at a local pawn shop, feeling the owner would be more generous with information if he bought something, and it was engraved on the convex front in loopy cursive: _Barb, Here's Mud In Your Eye._

March had thought stupidly about getting the message sanded off, and having Healy's name put on instead.

It would not have been an appropriate gift. Their mutual interest in strong spirits was not currently crossing paths. Healy was sober, and March was trying; he was succeeding about twenty percent of the time.

Look, there were boys buzzing around Holly, the fucking Chets of the disco scene. Of course he was drinking.

The Beegees' strangled falsetto thrummed out of the speakers. March leaned over, sliding his hand across the sticky table and brushing his fingers against Healy's elbow. He was wearing short sleeves. Their skin sparked against each other.

He'd been trying to think of a better gift for Healy, something meaningful and significant, that encompassed exactly how grateful March was for Healy's steady presence in his and his daughter's knockabout lives.

He came up, as usual, rather short.

"Want me to blow you in the bathroom?"

Healy smiled instantly, made a show of considering it.

"Nah," he shook his head gently. "When we get home, though?"

"You got it," March breathed shakily.

In fact, once Holly had been put to bed, exhausted and happy, what happened was that Healy got March splayed naked on his back in bed, one hand a heavy pressure on his heaving chest and the other covering his noisy mouth, and fucked him languidly into the mattress. He was slow and relentless and clucked his tongue at March every time March wailed too loud against his hand. "Quietly," Healy shushed, canting his thick hips again, his wide, hard dick hitting deep enough to make March's eyes flutter and his thighs flex.

It was fucking easy for him to say.

Back to the Mistress Boudica debacle: it was a shock to March's system that he fucking loved this. That Healy's light-touch approach to keeping March under his thumb worked for him on a whole lot of levels. Jackson Healy - Real Life Tough Guy, as March constantly reminded him - was built for barfights and back alley brawls. He had made a name for himself by bloodying his fists. He had once, he admitted to March coyly, bitten a chunk out of a man's ear. "It was too close quarters to throw a decent punch," he said, trying to excuse himself.

March had made it a point to avoid violence in his adult life. He had taken cash up-front and split on more than one case that looked like it could turn ugly. He did not have a reputation as a brave cop, during his time on the Force, and though he had been hospitalised in uniform in a fight that cost him his sense of smell, it had been an ambush. Holland March did not enjoy spontaneous violence against his person.

If he could control it, though—

If he could say to Healy, hey, the shape of your fingers really suits my neck, why not press a little harder, leave a little mark, huh?

It made the world of difference in ways he didn't care to think about too deeply.

He woke up more than once to Healy's fingers tracing soft lines along his stumbled jaw, his collarbone, his tender neck. March huffed off the last of his sleep and dipped his chin, got his lips against Healy's fingertips, welcomed them in. Healy had a unique hum for each of his emotions, and his chest rumbled with low approval.

March needed a shower. He was clammy with sleep-sweat and his hair kinked up at all angles. He needed a shave too.

It was a great opportunity to ask—

Jesus, but he was lousy with honesty sometimes.

A little context: after Emma, while he was testing the breaking point of his newfound sexual freedom, he had learnt to suck dick decently. He'd assumed male prostitutes were all kids barely out of their teens, making decent bucks getting pounded on the regular. But there was an older, heavier crowd who'd slip March's dollar into their back pocket then wait for him to get on his knees.

One such tryst had ended up with jizz drizzling fitfully out the side of March's open mouth. The guy hadn't warned him, and came hard. March wasn't that fucking adept at swallowing on command. "You like that?" The guy had asked, with a jerk of his chin, like March was supposed to be grateful.

"No I did not fucking like it," March spat, wiped his mouth with his palm. He'd then gone into the nearest bar, chased the taste away with two bad glasses of scotch, and scrubbed his teeth with his finger for seven minutes in the dirty bathroom.

March did not offer Healy this particular story, but did manage to extricate Healy's fingers from his mouth long enough to blurt out, "Come on my face?"

"Holland," Healy said, with a wry, surprised smile. March felt it in his stomach every time Healy called him by his given name. "That's pretty fucking territorial."

March still had ahold of Healy's wrist, kissing two of his fingers. "I'm serious."

"You're serious? Makes a change."

"Jack, Jesus, just say no if you don't—"

"Shift back," Healy said. It wasn't as though his tone or stance changed drastically. But he looked March in the eye, and they both knew there was no arguing now. "Against the wall."

March shuffled back along the mattress, dragging the pillows to sit plump under his shoulderblades, and Healy followed him up the bed, his knees nudging March's armpits; he wasn't quite sat up against the headboard, but slumped enough that his mouth lined up nice and flush with Healy's dick. Healy let his bulk ease down onto March's chest for a moment, pushing all the air out of his lungs in a low wheeze. March had figured out early on in this thing that that particular pressure was a buzz he craved daily, that airless emptiness that seemed to cleanse his mind as well as his body.

His shoulders sagging, his hands limp on Healy's thighs, March licked his lips and let Healy perch up, loom above him, and press his dick into March's mouth.

It was instant. All March's worldly worries pushed aside.

He hadn't been a hippie in a long time, and even then had only really been into the groove for the prolific drugs rather than the free love, but March felt like that wide-eyed, brainless teen again, with Healy slowly pumping his dick between his lips; slow to question, quick to love, no use worrying about the future. Only caring about the moment.

March moaned, got his tongue flat against the steady motion of Healy's dick. He had to dip his head some, trying to get Healy's thrust a little deeper, a little tougher, but Healy didn't rise to the bait. Brought a hand up to March's hair and took a whole handful of it, keeping him still with the threat of a sharp tug. His other hand went to March's jaw, stroking briefly, and then—

His thick thumb, just nudging against the corner of March's mouth. Jesus Christ. He was trying to get it in. He was already wide rather than long, but March, they both knew, had a big fucking mouth he didn't like to shut often.

"You can take it," Healy murmured.

Well, goddamn, if Healy had that kind of faith in him—

They worked it in together, March frowning at the painful tug in the corner of his lips as Healy got his nail-tip into the wet of his mouth, used it to lever in the whole thumb. All the while he kept up his slow thrust, his thumb just there for ballast. March's eyes had been shut in concentration for minutes now, but he risked a glance up: Jackson Healy's warm, rounded face, his cheeks flushed, his mouth open in the fondest smile March had ever seen on a man getting head.

It hit him like a cow poke in his gut, an electric jolt of realisation.

Healy—

Healy really liked this. All of this, whatever they were doing. The chance to have someone trust in the restrained violence of his big, bruiser fists.

Maybe neither of them had ever had a particularly notable sex life until they started putting in the effort.

Healy always got sloppy when he was close to coming. He pulled his thumb free and got both hands on the wall, kneeling up, fucking into March's mouth in earnest. March clung onto his thighs, rode it out, still nothing forceful enough to clang his head against the bedframe, but a hard pressure against the back of his head, a hot insistence in his mouth. His lips were sore, his palms were sweating, and he couldn't see anything behind his closed eyes except the soft red of Healy's upturned lips.

Suddenly, violently, Healy pulled out. March tried to follow him with a gasp but Healy got a firm hand around his neck, pushed him back, held him there, and jerked himself two inches from March's face, far rowdier with himself than he ever was with March.

"Fuck," March managed, sounding almost anesthetised between his tender lips. "Jackson—"

"Keep your mouth shut," Healy grunted, "Or I'll get it in you, not on you."

March kept his mouth shut, and Healy came not a moment later. Spilt come on the swell of March's cheekbone, a second spurt on his bottom lip and chin. He pumped his dick until it was spent, dribbling the rest on March's bare chest.

" _Fuck_ ," March breathed, like a low prayer.

Above him, Healy caught his breath. Wiped his wet thumb across March's cheek to catch the most of it; fed it to him. March instinctively nursed on Healy's thumb as soon as it was back in his mouth.

See, he was hard. He wasn't close to coming, not without help, but he was rock hard beneath the duvet. They could get to it later, or maybe not at all, or whatever. What mattered right now was cleaning Healy's thumb with his tongue.

"You've done this before," Healy said, not really meaning it. A comment on March's skill.

"Mmm," March murmured. Sex made him honest, if they got far enough along. "But then it was gross."

"And now it isn't?"

"Oh, it is," March told him, licking a long swipe in the soft pad of Healy's skin where his thumb and forefinger joined up. "But I kinda don't mind."

"How about that," Healy hummed. It was his pleased, affectionate hum. That was one of March's favourites.

—An afterword, then.

Fuck it.

Holland March had had a lot of poor sex in his life. But he wasn't having a lot of that right now, okay? We done here?

Okay.


End file.
